


Jumping as the clock strikes twelve

by LimitedBrainCells



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: Angst, Fiction, Fluff and Angst, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, One Shot, Other, Sad, Short One Shot, Suicide, The Author Regrets Everything, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26793163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LimitedBrainCells/pseuds/LimitedBrainCells
Summary: I wrote this as an English assignment but i love it to much to not post
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Jumping as the clock strikes twelve

**Author's Note:**

> Bertha suicide, (Bertha point of view)

Inky blackness dotted with white lights; blurry like the solar system was drunk, eyesight swimming in and out of focus. Or that could be me, the smoke filling my lungs. I was choking on it. “Bertha, Bertha, no, please no.” voices calling out to me. My mother, father, brother and then Rochester, my husband. A man who swore to God he would love me, the sweet nothings he whispered in my ears, those nights... all to abandon me, to cheat, to remarry. Maybe he had left her, the girl, the young innocent child, the poor girl he had manipulated into loving him. I had to scare her then, had to warn her somehow and tonight I had to end it, this hell on earth now fittingly burning beneath my feet, red flames licking up the side like demons crawling up. One foot in front of the other, one lifetime to the next. Steady legs, steady hands no shaking, not now. If this made me insane then so be it; I was not before simply independent, to much for him to handle. He made me mad.  
One moment of weakness, one look back. I saw him, soot covering his face and tears following the contour of his cheekbones, those sharp cruel blades, ones that could price my heart. One look, I could have turned and took his hand, that look, the one I had fallen in love with. No; he did not love me, he could not love me and he never would; he loved her. My hand twitched, seeking out the warmth of his. But the call of home was to strong. Wind; wind rushing past my ears, one more step and I would be done. One more step and I would go home. I stared down, down into what should have been a gravel path but instead was the sandy shores of Barbados, the saltwater running up the beach and not far from it the door to home, I could hear my mother call us in for dinner, see the footprints my brother and I had left. I could smell the meat, but it smelt burnt almost like… hot, burning, fire. Then the flames flared up. Almost to where Rochester and I are standing, almost blocking out my view of home. Beautiful, stunning, yellow flames, reaching up to touch the havens, but never reaching home, never marring the perfection of my childhood with their black kiss.  
Looking down again, the old lamp, the bed and my desk, the photo of him, the man I fell in love with, not Rochester, Rochester was cruel, the boy I fell in love with was Edward. It was calling out to me, all I needed to do was step towards it, step home. So I did. I stepped, saw the sun through my closed eyes. Felt the warm water around my head. But was it water…water is not red.


End file.
